Sugarbabe: The Controversial Real Story of a Woman in Search of a Sugar Daddy

By Holly Hill

“Attractive, professional, well-spoken, well-dressed 35-year-old woman seeks sugar daddy. I live in Darlinghurst on a 17th floor unit with fantastic skyline views to the harbor. The unit also features very discreet and secure undercover guest parking. I am looking for exclusivity so will (theoretically) be available to you 24 x 7. I am single and don't have any children. I am also a fabulous cook and can provide gourmet meals should you require them. I am a qualified psychologist so I make an excellent listener, and I have a great love of conversation. I have also worked for many years in public relations so am a clever, charming companion in just about any situation. I love sex. I will require a generous weekly allowance in return for all of the above.”

Holly Hill (pseudonym) gave up her job at the behest of her wealthy boyfriend—and then found herself dumped and penniless. After spending six weeks in bed pining for her lost love, she was encouraged by a friend to be "open-minded" about her career choices—and ended up placing an online ad for a sugar daddy. She received an almost overwhelming response from all sorts of men, but most of them were married men whose wives had lost interest in sex. As Holly interviewed the men and settled on a candidate, she decided to record what happened next. Those almost-daily observations became a journal documenting Holly's extraordinary experiences—not just the men she meets, but the things she finds out about marriages, in particular, and what men need from them. Sugarbabe is her real-life account of the emails, meetings, employment of and interactions with the applicants for the role, and the five men she eventually chooses (not all at the same time!). It is by turns funny, enlightening, challenging and thought-provoking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skyhorse
• Release date: Jul 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781628730111

Holly Hill

Holly Hill is the author of the bestselling SUGARBABE. She worked as a journalist before moving into public relations and corporate communications.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It was a ‘John’ who introduced me to my life of Dicks.

I met John at Jason’s party. Jason worked for a small investment company that did very well. Amazingly well, in fact. Jason’s income just seemed to keep on doubling while the rest of us looked on with undisguised envy. I had known Jason since my Newcastle University days, when I did psychology and he did engineering. Jason was often found passed out on our lounge room floor in the mornings clutching an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. This was a feat in itself because Jason was well over six foot tall and our tiny lounge room was probably only about five square.

Jason was best known for his fabulous parties, and that night’s was no exception – people were littered throughout the Federation house in various states of inebriation.

I was in the main bedroom with a group of people sprawled on Jason’s king-sized waterbed. (Jason always had waterbeds because he reckoned the new-fangled ‘zero partner disturbance’ beds were sacrilegious and ought to be banned by the Church. He liked his partners awake.) We weren’t having a sex romp or anything. It was just three or four talkatively tipsy people having a toke and solving all of the world’s problems in one conversation.

Feeling chuffed with my contribution, but faintly concerned about whether I had over-simplified with my answer ‘Succumb’, I walked out of the bedroom just as John walked in the front door.

It was like every worn cliché. Our eyes met and I was instantly attracted to him, without even seeing the rest. His eyes were an intense blue and there was a whole lot going on behind them. Whoever said the eyes are the windows to the soul was probably a God-botherer. Let’s face it, the eyes are the windows to the brain, just as nature intended.

Introductions naturally followed and I was amazed to learn this person of the blue eyes was Jason’s boss. Apparently he was a ‘very rich and powerful man’ who was not only a financial backer of Jason’s investment company but also the computer genius who had written the program that had made the investments so successful. ‘A mad genius’ was how Jason had described this man who was gazing at me so intensely. I drowned in those eyes that night. I was like a rabbit trapped in a spotlight. And it wasn’t just the eyes. That brain.

I would like to be able to describe what John was wearing and what he said to me. But all I can remember are those blue eyes and the fact that he was attracted to me too. In fact, so obvious was our attraction that Jason pulled me aside at one point and told me John was married.

Married! My mood plummeted. John was off limits, an ‘untouchable’. I was no marriage-wrecker. The last thing I wanted to do was come between a married man and his wife. Perhaps they’d been childhood sweethearts and were one of those couples that still went everywhere holding hands. Maybe they even had children.

But I couldn’t help myself. This might be my only chance to ever get to know a blue-eyed, zillionaire genius.

The party was one of those all-nighters only people with high tolerances for excess can endure. My friends and I believed that moderation should be in moderation. In other words, we occasionally binged.

Anyway, a bunch of us were still going strong about 6 a.m. when the final guests started to leave. So I invited John, Jason and Susan around to my place to watch the spectacular sunrise my apartment was privy to.

Susan was one of my very few women friends in Sydney and one of the only true bisexuals I knew. She quite literally alternated between men and women, all of them highly exotic creatures who worshipped the ground Susan trod on. I guess most of us worshipped Susan – she was a far better clinical psychologist than I ever hoped to be, and was drop-dead gorgeous with long, spectacular legs and a smile that could melt a sociopath (and often did). Although she hadn’t gone to university with us, she had partnered another friend of ours for many years and now I saw her more than the original friend. I always feel like a traitor when that happens.

My unit was located right in the middle of Darlinghurst, a well-known entertainment strip between Sydney’s CBD and its red-light district. The streets were lined with cafés, restaurants, pubs and nightclubs, all well within staggering distance of my place. After the taxi dropped us off, we all trooped into the lift, up to the seventeenth floor and into my apartment, a tiny studio with plate-glass windows facing the north-east. It had been my home and refuge for about six months, ever since I’d moved back to Sydney from my home town of Port Stephens. I’d lived in Sydney before about five years earlier, but had fled to grieve when half my friends died of HIV/AIDS. Now I was back, and making up for lost time.

I made drinks for everyone and Jason passed around a joint. I could make up a conversation to recount, but it’d mostly be shit. Bullshit, that is. We were all pretty far gone. No-one says anything clever after they’ve been up for twenty-four hours.

John sat beside me on the couch, rubbing whatever part of my anatomy he could decently reach in mixed company. Being a rather intellectual lot, we continued to solve the problems of the world, although I suspect our solutions might have been a tad impractical. For example, if religion of any kind was banned and everyone started worshipping the planet instead, like Susan suggested, I’m sure there’d be hell to pay. Pardon the pun.

When John started to give me a back massage and I generously offered to take my shirt off for better access, Susan and Jason quickly made to leave.

‘No, no!’ I almost screamed, wanting them to stay because I feared John would leave with them and he hadn’t found the tattoo at the base of my spine yet. ‘Please stay, I’m enjoying the conversation.’

I gave Susan the ‘Urgent Eye’ (you know what I mean – a kind of wide-eyed grimace as you mouth nonsense words that you hope can’t be seen by the other person). Luckily for me, Susan was quite used to translating non-verbal grimaces and she hastily sat down again, realising it was make-or-break time for me and Blue Eyes.

I might not remember much of what our little group said that morning, but I sure remember the massage. Not only did it seem to last forever, John seemed compelled to continue, almost as if the need to massage was a physical tic or obsessive-compulsive movement. Two rounds of coffee, half an ounce of pot, and almost a bottle of vodka later, I was ready for Jason and Susan to leave. By now John had well and truly discovered the tattoo on my back and even whispered to me that he’d always wanted to make love to a girl with a tattoo but had never had the chance.

I refrained from saying I’d never made love to a married man before and until now, it had been a point of pride.

This time I gave Susan the ‘OK, You Can Go Now’ eye and, bless her cotton socks, she had Jason shuffled out the door before John could even think about removing his cramped fingers from the bowl of iced water I’d put them in. But we didn’t leap into each other’s arms, as all the novels and films seem to have it: rather, we explored each other’s intellect. I’d never met a certified genius before, but soon discovered the gift of the gab thwarts genius any day. While John delivered quality of conversation, I delivered quantity, thereby ensuring some conversational ‘gems’ through sheer number of words generated (the monkeys typing in a room theory), which the genius in him thoughtfully remembered and discarded the rest.

I probably should reveal at this point that I am gifted in what I describe as ‘conversational bluffery’. It’s probably derived from being both psychologist and writer – if those two professions don’t give you the gift of the gab, you’re in the wrong job. I guess they also explain my need for catharsis and the urge to tell all to the world – dangerous traits for an adventurer into the human psyche!

I also have a terrible short-term memory. So over the years, I’d written down my various psychological and literary insights in a small book. My new genius friend didn’t need to know that I had only produced them, on average, at the rate of a couple a year.

‘I tend to jot down what I’m thinking,’ I told him, producing the notebook. ‘These are the most recent thoughts.’

And so I was able to produce at least thirty musings with varying degrees of insightfulness. They included such life-changing observations as ‘Can the dead see you when you have sex?’, which was about as original as lunch at McDonald’s but had bothered me when my father died. Likewise, ‘the loneliness of a crowd’ had been a symptom of the grief I had felt then. Some related to my work: ‘A delusion is merely a thought that has snowballed’ seemed to impress John enormously. Individually, they didn’t seem like much, but reading them out together, I somehow managed to convince this married blue-eyed genius that I had a halfway decent IQ and a philosophical nature.

For his part, he told me he believed the world, and everyone in it, could be reduced to a set of numbers, and that by doing so you could predict just about anything, given a large enough sample size. Apparently the computer program he had written rested on this theory and was one of the most successful investment software programs in the world.

To my amazement, despite his wealth John also spoke about how unhappy he was with his life and how, for him, the world was a boring and unfulfilling place. He told me he’d realised he didn’t love his wife ten days after he married her, and the birth of his children had only made things worse.

How a zillionaire with two children could possibly be bored and unfulfilled was completely beyond me, and only added to my fascination for the man. I was out to impress, so I quoted the latest sci-fi novel I was reading and gave him a sketchy account of how I believed worm holes could quite reasonably be accessed to travel across space and time. (Thank goodness for sci-fi novels, I say – they can always be relied upon for some interesting adjunct to conversation!) When that led him to talking about quantum physics I managed to nod in all the right places, although he pretty much lost me after the first couple of sentences.

When he asked if he could kiss me, it seemed quite reasonable that I would reply in the affirmative, and I did. I suspect he was relieved at a break from my conversational bluffery more than anything else, although the poor man could just have been horny.

I guess I should also mention that I’m lucky enough to be considered darned attractive. How this came about, I’m not sure. At school I was the tall, pale, awkward girl who was always the wallflower and didn’t even get to touch the male species until I was sixteen and lucky enough to spin the bottle at a guy who also had big metal railway tracks on his teeth.

Then, somehow, someway, when all the boys got taller and I stopped trying to appear shorter, the pear-shaped hunchback turned into an alright kind of gal. The straw-bleached hair (yep, the household stuff – we’d done it in the toilets at school) turned out to be soft and auburn, and the tendency to fat was merely excessive after-school snacking. Even more surprisingly, I moved gracefully and confidently without a hint of curvature of the spine!

That kiss was one of the most erotic encounters of my life. I gazed deep into his mad blue genius eyes and explored his lips with my own. I should mention here that I have big, puffy Angelina Jolie lips on an equally big mouth. As you can imagine, both mouth and lips get me into trouble regularly.

This is probably also a good place to explain that I am an advocate of the pash and dash. The philosophy is thus: one pashes, then one dashes. Every good girl has done it. For one thing, it’s far better to be considered a prick tease than a slut. Plus, it doesn’t mean anything – just another type of interaction with a pair of lips you find attractive. It’s also an excellent way to startle someone. One minute they’re deep in conversation with you and the next, you’ve got your tongue down their throat. (Or vice versa.)

But so good was the kiss with John that it immediately highlighted one of the principal flaws of the pash and dash: sometimes, it is difficult – if not impossible – to dash after the pash. In this case, I wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was John. Not for a while, anyway.

I would like to say that what followed was a morning of the most intense and passionate sex I’d ever had, but in reality we were both far too sleep deprived and he had a guilt-ridden soft-on for most of the time. Of course, I didn’t let on that I thought his penis flaccidity was marriage-related; rather, I used all of the bluffery I could muster and somehow managed to convince him that he was the sexiest man alive.

This was really saying something, because in reality my blue-eyed man was several cans short of a six pack. John was very squat and very short, a bit like a cube. He had pale skin scattered with moles that looked suspiciously like melanomas, very fine red hair cut short to disguise premature baldness, and big, thick black spectacle frames that even Prada couldn’t make attractive.

Did I wonder why someone who could afford Prada would choose to wear big, thick black spectacle frames? No! I was the rejected wallflower, remember. I had before me a real, live, unhappy rich man who was living proof that Richie Rich wasn’t just a character in a comic. So I decided then and there that I would prove to John that the world was a thrilling, beautiful, glamorous, roller-coaster ride and it was his Goddess-given duty to darn well enjoy it. After all, money didn’t grow on trees.

Or so I thought.

I won’t bore you with all of the lovey-dovey details. The fact is, I genuinely thought it was love. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to change a single thing about the person I adored. In my eyes, he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

But I’m honest enough to admit this was the first time I’d been with a man who offered to wave his magic wand and bring to reality anything I desired. I remember walking past a row of exclusive shops one day and John offered to buy me anything I wanted. He told me that $5 for me was about $500 for him. It was an extraordinary thing to say to a person who didn’t get her first pair of Levi’s until she could afford them herself. In the end, I chose a $350 pair of knickers and a matching bra. They weren’t even the most expensive set in the shop. John wanted me to choose two. Instead, I described how I’d once offered the same deal to my three-year-old niece and been tremendously relieved when she’d picked a $2 bubble-blower.

It’s a strange predicament, being able to pick anything from a shop. Trying not to notice the price tags. Hoping that you don’t pick the most expensive thing. Wondering what the staff are thinking. Cringing when your companion pays for something so sexy on your behalf. It was a very strange feeling. My whole life, I had always bought my own things: clothes, make-up, underwear. And now here was a married man buying my most intimate garments on his credit card. A black Amex, at that. I hadn’t even realised there was anything beyond platinum.

At some points in your life, you cross boundaries that cannot be re-crossed. In sport, I think they call them ‘back court’: nonnegotiable benchmarks of experience beyond which lies failure to progress. I had once accepted a ‘pick of the jewellery store’ from a best friend, but that was very different from a ‘pick of the lingerie store’ from a married man. I’d crossed a line, and suddenly it was hot that this man was buying me expensive presents and making me feel like a kept woman. It was amazingly, who’d-have-thoughtingly sexy. And there was more to come.

For the record, I didn’t ask for a single thing. I still can’t imagine asking for something hideously expensive, let alone demanding it, as we are led to believe some people do. But I didn’t have to. John looked around my life, saw what I needed, and suddenly I had a fabulous camera, a high-powered telescope, a beefed-up computer, a high-tech DVD player (that I still can’t set the time or record on) and more bling than a hip-hop convention.

They were heady days for a mostly unsophisticated girl so recently returned from life in a small coastal town. When John wasn’t around, I’d walk down Oxford Street smiling a sexy smile generated by a vastly increased sense of self-worth. (Perhaps ‘ghastly inflated’ might be a better description, but I didn’t know that then.) I was so flattered that a man like John was telling me he loved me. I felt so incredibly proud.

It made me horny too. When I went out with my friends, I would flirt like hell with any poor man who happened to be straightish and able to carry off a song or two on the dance floor. These teased souls got the pumpkin treatment in the wee small hours, and John would later reap the benefits of my pent-up desires. He was the only man for me: no-one else even came close.

So when John suggested I give up my work as a psychologist and go on the ‘Mistress Plan’ in order to be more available to him, I didn’t hesitate. In fact, I rejoiced! I’d been working for the Department of Corrective Services and my client load included several rapists, a home invader and one of the major witnesses for a paedophilia inquiry. Counselling gave them a better chance at parole. I could practically feel their eyes roll when I called them up and tried to be cheerful.

It was so nice to actually help John. To soothe his troubled hurts when he came home, or say the right things when he wanted to vent about his wife or his work. I stocked the fridge with the foods John loved to eat and started to purchase gourmet coffees. I took him on adventures and to dance parties and he met people he would otherwise never have come into contact with. And all the while he was grateful, saying he couldn’t believe he had met a person like me. That I was indeed the perfect woman. That he loved me unconditionally.

To hear a man such as John utter those words and more took me to heights of happiness that I had never known existed. It just felt so good that little ol’ me was helping big ol’ John. He would walk into my apartment stressed, unhappy and sometimes even suicidal. He would walk out again relaxed and happy with a smile on his face. We texted each other dozens of times a day, and he jokingly described the time he spent with his family as ‘boot camp’ in comparison with the time he spent with me. I taught him how to love life again. How to see the beauty in the world. How to appreciate his wonderful children. So great were my levels of support for him that I would have cheerfully told you that he owed me and I didn’t feel in his debt at all. I was earning my keep.

I told myself and anyone who’d listen that the man of my dreams was in a ‘messy separation’ and would shortly wake up next to me every morning. I believed I would become the perfect stepmother to his children and we would sail yachts and live in exotic locations together. I’d imagine myself on his arm at fabulous parties, dressed in Versace with my hair done by someone with only a first name. We would vacation in Europe for months at a time, and I would leave little presents under park benches for vagrants to find. I’d finally have time to write novels and achieve my life-long dream of becoming a successful writer. Most importantly, I’d be making a very rich, powerful man happy. Little old me. I would achieve what a zillion dollars was incapable of.

That was the buzz. It wasn’t the presents; it wasn’t having the world placed at my feet; and it wasn’t being able to go into a shop and buy anything at all. It was the fact that the daughter of Mrs South Port Stephens was more valued by this man than all of the money in the world.

I began to consider him the only true love I had ever known. I sang in the shower and around the house. I gave $5 notes to beggars. I smiled and laughed to myself as I walked down the street – and people smiled back! – I identified with the lyrics in songs. I thought his annoying habits were endearing. I would have given my life for his children, even though I hadn’t met them yet. I opened up my heart and joyously offered John my soul.

I even started a novel about some audacious little old ladies I’d always dreamed of writing. I had planned it for nearly a decade and it was simply a matter of putting pen to paper. It didn’t flow as freely as I’d expected, but I had the rest of my life to complete it. I wasn’t in a hurry. Cloud Nine had so many other things to offer.

The trouble with being so very, very ‘up’ is that there is an awfully long way to fall.

When I met John for the second time, his first statement was: ‘I’m not going to leave my wife’. Six months later, they had separated and he was mentally divvying up a $20 million estate. But when his wife threatened to kill herself and his children if he didn’t return to her, he transferred $4000 into my account and I never spoke to or saw him again. At bloody Christmas-time too. Our last meeting was when I gave him a stack of presents I couldn’t really afford and he gave me glandular fever. I spent two fevered weeks in bed wondering why he didn’t return my calls.

On 10 January I finally heard from him. By email. Five cold sentences, probably proofed by his wife. He said he’d returned to Charlene ‘for the sake of the children’ and that one of her conditions was that he never speak to me or contact me again. He sent some of my things back to me by Australia Post and didn’t even include so much as a comp slip.

I cried so much it was a wonder I didn’t dehydrate. I didn’t leave my bed for another three long weeks. I remember sobbing to Susan that anyone could give me expensive presents, but none of them could give me John. I finally convinced her to phone him after I’d had a full-on anxiety attack. That was when I learned about Charlene’s ultimatum. What a cow.

My friends couldn’t understand it. They thought I should be grateful and pointed out the presents I’d received. I was incensed at their reaction. I had considered John to be my one true love. The money had nothing to do with it.

So from the dizzying heights of ecstasy I plummeted to the depths of vaguely suicidal depression. I was also jobless and flat broke. My mortgage and rent alone were $1300 a fortnight. I’d leased my unit in Port Stephens to a single-mother acquaintance who had recently split with her boyfriend and was doing it tough. With John’s encouragement, I had generously offered her a twelve-month lease at a paltry $150 a week. My mortgage payments were nearly double that but John had said he’d subsidise me. Now, after two weeks in bed sick and another three weeks of moping, I had $300 in the bank and a week and a half to find at least another grand. Social security would give me a whole $400 a fortnight.

And so I did what everyone does in times of hardship: I started eating at the homes of friends.

CHAPTER 2

‘You’re a psychologist – perform an assessment on yourself,’ Kev told me, tired of hearing me moan about my jobless state and pending financial doom. ‘What skills do you have? What do you do best? Where do you want to work? How do you want to work?’

Kev was another university friend and had shared the same house where Jason had spent so much time on the lounge room floor. One of the reasons we’d all clicked was because most of us were ‘mature age’ students. I’d done a couple of years as a cadet journalist and Kev had worked as a lab technician. Now he was an eminent scientist at the Institute of Molecular Biology and well on his way to finding a cure for heart disease. Ours was one of those friendships where we could say absolutely anything to each other and still remain friends. We knew all the dark secrets because we’d been there for most of them. I always said that if Kev chopped someone up into a million pieces and microwaved them, I’d hold his hand in court.

I sighed and tried to list what I did best. ‘I’m a bloody good psychologist if people give the profession a chance. I hope I’m intelligent, although I’m very vague. I’m good at entertaining. I enjoy cooking. I like to spoil people, make them feel good about themselves. I’m pretty good at treating depression, or my clients seem to think so. But it’d be nice to work from home. I want to be able to write my novel. Novels, plural. As for physical attributes, I dunno – I’m pretty lucky in that department, I guess. So far, that is. What else? I want to travel. I like spending most of my income on clothes and beauty. Hah. Funny that. I like spending time with my gay friends without having a boyfriend insist on always coming along. I like . . .’

I trailed off and looked at Kev.

‘What else?’ he prodded. ‘What do you want out of life?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said grumpily. I sighed again. ‘I like men. A man. One man. I’m definitely a one-man girl – the sex is better that way. Someone like John. Definitely no love! Not just yet anyway. Enough money for play. Sex. Dancing. Adventures. Entertaining. Keeping myself well maintained. Helping people with their problems. Pilates. Writing. Did I already say that? I probably said sex too. I dunno – that’s it, I think.’

Kev was busily scribbling down my various answers. He stared at his jottings for a moment and then a huge smile spread across his face. He sat back in his chair and looked at me again, still smiling broadly, leaving me wondering if he should have smoked that last joint.

‘What?’ I said. I was over the fun and games. I just wanted to know what was so blatantly obvious that my best friend of twenty years was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Kev just kept grinning. It was highly annoying.

‘What?’ I repeated, more sharply this time.

‘Are you sure you want to hear it?’ he said. ‘You might not be open-minded enough.’

Bloody Kev. He knew me too well. I took the bait. Don’t you hate

Reviews for Sugarbabe

[ryitgrrl · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

An insightful look at the world of sex and companionship for money and the nature of rlationships in a social climate where everything is out sourced including our most intimate life details.I found it tragic and uplifting at the same time. The fact that the sugar babe in question happens to be a psychologist only adds to the depth of this book.Well worth a read.

[jodye-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I liked it at first but then found the tone changed to be too preachy and then ending of the book kinda lame. Could have been much better.

[johnny1978_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

The sexual memoir is a genre that practically deserves its own shelving in your local library. It provides a vicarious thrill: puporting to give a real-life account of exotic sexual encounters most of us may fantasize about but rarely get to experience. Supreme in this genre is Belle du Jour whose erotic (and conveniently unverifiable) experiences are subject of a series of non-fiction titles.Sugarbabe by Holly Hill is more pants-dropping disguised as biography.Hill, an affluent middle-class Sydney-sider, is dumped by her wealthy lover and finding herself jobless and single, places an add on the internet advertising for a sugar daddy.She becomes a kept woman, in the traditional parlance; a maitresse en titre, in the language of love; a bird of paradise, in regency cant.In plain terms, a hooker with her own flat and a decent wine-list.Hill is a fine raconteur: she gives a vivid description of the men who pay her and provides an interesting insight into the psychology of a certain type of cashed-up male. This is one of the book's greatest strengths: Hill is a qualified psychologist and her pillow talk reads like psycho-analysis. She poses interesting questions about male/female relations and although she neccesarily lacks academic distance, her conclusions are articulate, if not terribly original.This makes her own complete lack of self perception extraordinary.One of Hill's stated reasons for setting out on her sexual adventure is to pay her bills: why then, we must ask ourselves, does she end up almost broke?She is used, cheated and exploited by a variety of sexually dysfunctional middle-aged men and yet claims a stake in female empowerment without a hint of irony. Her paramours pay her extravagant compliments but not her bills. She inevitably ends up the loser in her sexual transactions both emotionally and financially, yet concludes the memoir with the same self congratulatory air of someone who's just climbed Everest. One of her lovers has such little respect for her (and his wife) that he penetrates her without a condom - despite her clear objections. Hill has a sensitive radar for the problems of others, yet appears blind to her own lack of self worth. Her spin is new feminist sexual power but her content is blow by blow, female degradation.Presented with these facts, the reader must question her motives. What are her real reasons for becoming a 'Sugarbabe'? This is one shrink who seems incapable of even elementary self-analysis.Hill also appears blind to the fact that she occupies a priveleged position: how many hookers can claim they chose their path? Extract the results of drug addiction and abuse and I suspect the number is low. It's yet another relevant question, Hill appears incapable of addressing.